


ignition

by serenfire



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Happy Ending, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, civil war spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 13:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6756607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenfire/pseuds/serenfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coffee, $3.99. Mocha, $4.99. Sam’s Unrequited Fucking Love, more than even Tony Stark can pay.</p><p>But he would never give it up for the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ignition

**Author's Note:**

> @anyone I know irl: do not read thanks

“People who shoot at you end up wanting to shoot at me, too. And I’m _cool_ with that, man, but you have to trust me,” frowns Sam, a tightly clenched coffee cup in his hands.

Steve sighs, and under his baseball cap, shifts his focus from Sam to the baristas behind them, to the inconspicuous people around them. Any one of them could be working for the government, for _Tony_. Sam is itching for a fight, but Steve—Steve just wants to run away.

Sam looks at Steve’s profile until the man glares back, resolute, uncomfortable. There’s enough tension in this room to spike a war, to ignite the flame of revolution and revolt and maybe something deeper, too.

“You’re never going to do it,” whispers Sam, and Steve clenches his perfect jawline.

“No,” he admits with a shaky breath.

Sam holds the coffee cup in his hands and tries not to crumple it, veins flexing and fingernails shaking. He wills himself not to spill the coffee over, onto the nice polished counter, onto Steve. Would he make it look like an accident? Would he _ever_.

“You can’t just say that,” he hisses to himself. “You can’t just— _fucking_ say that.”

Steve doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look Sam’s direction again, but his ungodly muscles are straining like something _fierce_ is contained in them, so Sam knows he’s heard.

He doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not.

And then Sharon slides into a seat next to Steve. Sam looks away, staring at the menu written in chalk above the counter. Coffee, $3.99. Mocha, $4.99. Sam’s Unrequited Fucking Love, more than even Tony Stark can pay.

But he would never give it up for the world.

And Sharon passes Steve a manila folder while lazily glaring at the same menu above the counter, wearing sunglasses too nonchalant for a CIA operative who’s working on two hours’ sleep, an easy smile slipping out at Steve.

Which Steve _returns_. When he _thanks_ her. And Sam’s been thanked by Steve before; it’s basically the only reason he’s still here, the fact that Steve still talks to him; and this is no regular thanks. This is Steve two seconds away from professing his love to her.

Sam is a therapist. He knows about harboring jealousy and letting unspoken emotions consume someone. But he’s fighting a war, now, with cracked knuckles and bandaged ribs and wings that are rearing to go, and and there are some things that are more important than the way Steve will occasionally laugh like there’s nothing better in the world to do than run in the early mornings with him.

So he tilts his head back and chugs the coffee like it’s vodka. He’s a vet; he knows something about pretending the world is the way you want it to be—or, in his case, the way it’s supposed to be. Where Steve treats him like a friend and there isn’t a gap between them of _you’re my Riley._

* * *

They don’t trade more than perfunctory gazes before the showdown. Too much tension and danger in the air; Steve is prepared to kill someone to get to Bucky, or die trying. Sam is just here to be near to him, as if he’s just trying to get a smile, a reaction, _anything real_ , out of Steve. Maybe that’s all he wants from him.

Steve is deeper than the machine-born muscles that coat his skin like silver, like gold, and Sam envies him for this, he really does, but it’s not _everything_. Because the man doesn’t scar and he doesn’t age, and Sam has marks of both, tattoos of his tours and scars of his civilian life. But they’re both the same inside.

And yet—Steve’s eyes gloss over him. Or seem to. Sam mentions it sometimes, in the dead of night, quiet, barbed. Usually around a couple of shot glasses, usually right after failing to find Bucky in HYDRA’s latest safehouse.

Steve will look away when Sam tells him exactly why he’s sticking around, in very frank terms. He will look at someone else, _anything_ else, in order to forget that Sam is looking into his very soul and pleading. He will say, “Sorry,” in a barely perceptible voice, like that’s a fucking answer at all.

If Sam can’t have Steve, he at least wants an explanation for _why_.

* * *

When Tony blasts him, when Rhodey lies unconscious in the grass, Sam is knocked out. Scientifically, he knows it’s a combination of adrenaline letdown and his injuries and the shock of seeing Rhodey just _lying_ there, but it’s still the worst kind of surprise to wake up in a cell, metal bars covering his only exit, not even being able to stay conscious for his last jaunt a free man.

His back itches, a rash from the wings as he plummeted thousands of feet to catch Rhodey, as the wind scraped his weapons of flight against his back, so he strips the jumpsuit to his waist and airs out his tank top.

The rest of his friends are in cells around him, and in the first day, they barely make any noise. Sam once asks if any of them were conscious when they were bagged, if they know where they are, but no one answers. He feels Wanda prodding at his mind, so hard it almost hurts, and he leans his head out the bars to look at her. She’s gritting her teeth, in a straightjacket, forehead against her bars, growling in a low guttural tone. There’s a collar around her neck, sparking like crazy.

It’s the only time Sam sees the guards of the facility up close. They rush into the room, wearing uniforms as bland as their jumpsuits, and subdue Wanda with shock batons and threats of much worse.

The guards are all white, and Sam knows who he is, so he sits behind his bed, as if he can be completely invisible. There’s a kind of bravery he utilized on the battlefield—careless recklessness, at first, laughing with Riley in his ear as he did things for truth, justice, and America, and solemn determination after Riley was shot down. In this situation, there’s no bravery. There’s no will, locked indefinitely in a supermax, the location no one will even tell Sam.

If Wanda can’t get them out, they’re fucked.

Sam waits until the guards file out of the prisoner, something shattering in him as their footsteps echo out. His arms still shake from the muscle cramps, from diving in midair to catch Rhodey, from _failing_ , from hoping that Steve made it to the quadcopter.

That’s all he has now, hope. Hope that the man who hides from him for _no explainable reason_ gets the man who has been his closest friend _for the past ninety years_. After making out with Sharon Carter, great-niece of the woman he was in love with during WWII. (Who doesn’t even return his affections, if the way she left immediately after the kiss was anything to judge by.)

Sam is, like, fourth on the list of People Important to Steve Rogers. Which is why Steve is over the Atlantic right now and not busting them out of prison.

When Sam sleeps, he dreams. He dreams of Steve coming back, of freeing them, Bucky by his side and Sharon hooking up with someone else. Nat, maybe. Nat’s been eyeing her, hasn’t she?

He dreams of embracing Steve, reaching out for his perfect chin to kiss him, to finally get to touch him like he aches to. To explain his love not in subtle barbs to Steve’s secrets, like Sam has done ever since Steve walked away the first time, but to tell him that Sam _will stand by his side_ no matter what Steve chooses, because Steve is such a good person and Sam just wants to soak himself in the aura.

And then he wants to kiss Steve, share a personal joke and a laugh, like old times. When there was nothing putting a crease between Steve’s eyes and they could hang out together, traverse New York’s new indie coffee joints and stand-up comedy corners. When Sam could almost believe Steve loved him back.

Sam wakes up in a cold sweat.

* * *

Tony looks so penitent, so broken, that Sam talks to him without a snarl on his face. After all, emotion hasn’t done any good in his interactions with Steve.

Tony is begging, pleading, for any chance to help Steve, to get back Bucky. He _may_ have made a mistake, and Bucky _may_ just be a brainwashed human and not a mechanical monster. Sam _may_ have been fighting for Steve for more than his looks, but his morals, too.

Sam forgives him on the spot. He can’t hold a grudge—not after he woke up without Steve next to him, their last words subtly easy and subtly heartbroken. He just needs another chance to speak with him, to forgive and forget. Tony can guarantee that.

So Sam tells him the coordinates of Siberia, whispered as Tony proves himself a tech genius and blocks the camera audio. He wonders for a second if this is just a test, if he is condemning himself to death by telling Tony exactly where to find Steve and Bucky unprotected.

After Tony walks away, heels clicking on the smooth floors, Clint smirks at him. “Smart move, Wilson.”

“I trust him,” Sam replies.

Clint smiles, skin stretching over tired bones. “Or you don’t have a choice.”

* * *

Days pass. Meaningless dates, reminiscent of the sun going up in the sky and then falling down, exhausted, every night. All of Ross’s prisoners adapt to a twenty-five hour schedule without knowledge of time passing.

There are no clocks in this supermax, and no guards will talk to the prisoners. Not after the incident with Wanda. Clint is the one that calls out time at the half hour, every hour; circus time, and Sam knows to take it with a grain of salt.

Sam’s back stops hurting. He wonders if Tony got to Steve, if he and Bucky made it out okay with the other Soldiers in the facility thirsty for his blood. He just wants some news; anything. Anything at all.

They get nothing. Scott Lang won’t stop talking about his daughter and how he’s behind on child support and how Clint had _promised_ him cash for the job, wired through whoever the fuck Louis is.

Clint tells him, again and again, Louis has the money. Cassie is safe. Scott needs to calm down.

No one talks to Sam, not even Wanda, whom he knows best, whom he’s fought next to for the past few years. Wanda croaks out words a few times, and it’s painfully obvious that being back in a cell is triggering her memories of the Baron, of HYDRA, of Pietro. So she doesn’t say anything, and her collar keeps sparking. One day, maybe, her magic will run free. Then Sam will be out in the world, where he can run around the Washington Monument freely and let the sun bask on his skin. His wings will unfurl again.

Steve will be there. In his many daydreaming fantasies, Steve runs with him. Doesn’t outlap him, just jogs beside him, a comforting presence that Sam needs more than anything in the world.

Slowly but surely, the prison is killing Sam, and he knows it. He accepts it.

* * *

Clint has just said, “Oh-three-hundred hours,” with a wry smile on his face, when Sam feels it. The prison shifts internally, lights flickering above them. Sam holds his breath.

One of the more popular theories getting tossed around is that the supermax is in space. No power would mean no life support, which would kill them all a lot quicker than boredom and hopelessness.

Sam puts on his shirt and half his jumpsuit. He needs to be presentable when he meets his maker, presuming that’s where he’s going after death.

Clint yawns, rapping his fingers on the bars and singing softly. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

And there. Something shifts in the shadows, and Sam’s not-quite-hawk eyes narrow in on it, the cones in his vision pointing to the movement of a graceful individual kicking the door open. Still too dark to know who it is.

“Stark?” Wanda calls, her voice hoarse from disuse. She’s paler than the rest of them combined, and probably thinner, too. Sam knows it’s probably Tony, coming in like last time, but instead of telling them about his plan to get Steve out, he’s informing them about the memorial to Captain America.

“Not quite,” a voice chuckles, and Sam freezes. He _knows_ the voice like the back of his hand, and has heard it every night for the past weeks in his dreams. The man steps into the light, and it’s _Steve_ , in full Captain America regalia, blood on his knuckles and what passes for a high-tech key ring in his hands. “Now, let’s see if we can get you all out?”

He smiles right at Sam, more honesty in the glance than in the past months.

Sam smiles right back.

* * *

Wakanda at sunset is brilliant, all stunning colors of the stars, free from pollution, surrounded by a lush jungle—as T’Challa likes to remind him, in the middle of the Sahara desert.

Never let it be known that Sam doesn’t know when someone’s showing off.

Steve stands next to him on the balcony, watching the sun go down in silence. Peaceful, too, not self-righteous and slightly aroused like the last million times they’ve bit off words and choked on their feelings.

They haven’t talked since Steve broke them out, and Sam isn’t in a hurry to change that. Two weeks in what passes as basically solitary confinement could give a man some perspective, but Sam doesn’t know if rescuing his closest friend and then putting him back in cryo gave Steve the same perspective.

The _we should be together forever because we have shared life experiences_ perspective.

Steve breaks the silence. “Sam, I know things have been hard between us—”

Sam laughs, looking down at the trees blossoming green. “Sure,” he agrees magnanimously. “Let’s say that.”

“I deserve that,” Steve admits, and Sam suppresses another laugh, this time of hysteria. Steve Rogers is _agreeing_ with Sam Wilson; _Riley, would you look at that. Fucking finally._

“I was out of place,” Sam says. “You just saved our lives.”

“Yeah, but, that’s my job,” Steve shrugs. Innocent. Eager. Like Sam doesn’t owe several life debts to Steve, like Steve doesn’t owe more back. “All the other times were personal.”

“Damn right.” Sam is itching for something to smoke. Would T’Challa kill him for adding fossil fuel emissions to the clean Wakandan air? Best not to risk it.

They turn to each other, and Sam can see Steve in such a softer light—his edges are cracked, but healing, and he’s not perfect, just good at acting righteous. It’s sometimes hard to believe that the problems aren’t all in Sam’s head.

They talk at the same time.

“I wanted to say sorry—”

“I just had to tell you—”

Steve waves Sam ahead.

Sam looks into his eyes, into his soul. “I just had to tell you that I thought about you, while in Ross’s illegal underwater prison. All the damn time. Not much else to do. And I thought—I don’t want to lose you, man. I’ll follow you into whatever suicidal mission you want to embark upon next time, but I don’t want to lose you again. I just want to be by your side.”

“Sounded like you wanted to be a bit more than that, Wilson.”

Sam punches his arm. “Yeah, but I’ve _seen sense_. Rogers.”

Steve takes Sam’s fist in his own, until his fingers open and Sam covers his scarred skin with his own. “What if I have also seen sense?”

And then, Sam can’t breathe. Can’t do anything but look into Steve’s green-flecked eyes, his soulful expression. “Explain,” he says, and doesn’t make a move to release his hand from Steve’s.

“I finished chasing Bucky,” Steve says. He looks so fucking _happy_ , and Sam can’t do anything but also be happy. “And he _remembered_. And he trusts me with finding a way to fix him. That’s—that’s so much stress of my back, Sam. That’s so much history that’s safe, now; that I don’t have to worry about.”

“What are you saying,” Sam insists. “That you turned me down because of _stress_?”

“No. I’m not saying that. I’m just saying that I didn’t turn you _down_ , Sam, I just said I couldn’t initiate anything, I couldn’t _start_ it. Not while worrying about your safety and about the future of the free world. But here,” Steve spreads his arms to the jungle, “I’m not in charge of the world. I’m not a superhero. I’m a fugitive from the US government; we _both_ are. I’m not responsible for anything but us.”

“That is,” Sam says doubtfully, “if you’re interested _in_ an ‘us’.”

Steve nods. “I am. I _am_. I—I don’t know about _right now_ , I mean, we’re all in the middle of transition and it has to be such whiplash for you—I said no, now I’m saying yes, when I have meant only one of these things in the past. But I. I care for you. And I’ve never _seen_ anyone before, Sam. I don’t know how this is supposed to go.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. Sure, this is whiplash, but he’s spent his entire prison sentence planning for this moment, as impossible as it may have seemed at the time.

So he threads their fingers together and leans against Steve, watching the man _not_ hold back this time, _not_ flinch away from Sam in fear and check the perimeter, but lean in until they stand next to each other.

“If you can do ‘right now’, Rogers, then I sure as hell can,” Sam says, and shuts Steve up with a kiss.

Steve returns it, his mouth sliding over Sam’s, uncoordinated, inexperienced, nervous. “So is that a yes?” he asks, wide-eyed, as he steps back for breath.

Sam laughs, carefree, looking at Steve just as he did when they first met, before the weight of the world rested on Steve’s shoulders. He holds his hand tightly. “Yes, dumbass. Of _course_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to geek out with me at my [tumblr](http://www.trans-reyskywalker.tumblr.com)!


End file.
